August 3, 1916

Son,

I am writing this while in the crowd, watching you pitch. Thank you for these excellent seats. I sure hope you followed the instructions on the outside of the envelope.

Seeing you in that white uniform and blue hat with the Boston "B" is almost too much for me to handle right now. And seeing you standing on the rubber at the beautiful American Grounds...it makes me incredibly proud.

Clay, I may seem strange that I am writing you this letter while watching you pitch just 100 feet away, and that I asked you not to open this until I am no longer on this Earth. The reason I did this is because I simply do not know when the last letter I write you will be written. I want this letter to be the last letter you read from me.

When I met your mother, back when I was 22, I had dreams of being the greatest father in the world. You know how strict your grandfather was. There were times when I hated him when I was young. When your mother and I had you three kids, I promised myself that I would never be like him.

And of course, I turned into him. But I began to understand why he was the way he was. He wanted what he thought was best for me. And I wanted what was best for you kids. But I now realize that only you know what is best for you.

I never told you this while you were growing up, and it's something I should have reminded you of every day. I promise you that a day did not go by without me thinking this. You, Jack, and Dot are the greatest thing that have ever happened to me.

I realize that I'm not very good at letter-writing, especially something as deep as I wish this would be.

I just want you to know that I am proud of you. When you read this letter, I will no longer be here in physical form, but I will always be with you, and someday, I will see you again.

Love,

Your Father

P.S. Nice pitching out there, Graveyard.